


Blizzard

by knitbelove (ladymac111)



Series: The happy ending is when things are going to begin for me. [4]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon, Present Tense, Sexual Content, Shakespearean Sonnets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:05:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/knitbelove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz didn't intend to stay with his family in Oxfordshire longer than a couple of days, but the weather has forced him and Simon to extend their holiday, stuck in a house where they're not really sure exactly how welcome Simon is -- Baz loves his family, but Grimm hospitality can only hold out so long, especially when their son's boyfriend is The Mage's Heir.  Maybe this is the perfect time for Simon to help his boyfriend practice not caring what his father thinks.</p><p>For the January 2016 Flash Freeze Fic Challenge.  It's not snowing here in Chicago (it's not even cold) but I stayed in all weekend to play along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, this was supposed to be fluffy smut but instead I exploded headcanons everywhere and it's way longer than I expected. I'm posting in chapters in case it doesn't get finished by the end of today. Not beta'd.
> 
> (a note on the rating, since I'm new in this fandom and I think there's variation in rating conventions: I have rated this story M since it contains a sex scene, which is described frankly, but not in exacting detail, and the sex itself is fairly standard. I reserve the E rating for very explicit or disturbing scenes, which this story does not contain.)

_-Baz-_

 I should have checked the forecast before we left London. Or at least before we agreed to stay out here last night instead of heading back home.

Snow is standing shirtless at the window, heavy velvet curtain pushed aside, gazing out at his namesake weather phenomenon as it whites out the Oxfordshire countryside. His hair still looks like spun gold, even in this cold, weak early morning sunlight, and it's standing up in random tufts. I slip out of bed, come up behind him and brush my lips over that mole on his neck, and he jumps slightly, startled.

"All right, Chosen One?" I murmur. His pulse is warm under my mouth.

"Crowley, don't sneak up on me." He turns his head slightly, just enough to give me a little kiss. He smells like sleep still, warm and cosy, with a hint of morning breath and now a little metallic spike of adrenalin, though that's fading as quickly as it came on. "Good morning, nemesis mine. I didn't think you were up."

"I am now." I smile at the phrase _nemesis mine;_ he picked it up from the Internet somewhere and we both find it funny, so he slips it into conversation when he's feeling cheeky. I slide my arms around his middle and rest my chin on his shoulder, pressing close, trying to hang onto his body heat as long as I can. (It's ironic, that snow is so cold, but Snow is so warm.) "How long have you been awake?"

"I dunno, not long. Ten minutes, maybe." He looks outside again. "I didn't know we were going to get a blizzard."

"Yeah, neither did I." I can't help but heave a sigh that's slightly melodramatic. "We won't be able to go home today. Possibly even tomorrow, depending on the roads. Another forty-eight hours with my family who hate you."

Simon's hands come to rest over mine, and his wings flutter a little, like they're wrapping around me. "They don't hate me any more."

"But they don't like you."

"Baz, are you _trying_ to put me off them?"

"You can't possibly _like_ it here," I insist, and I'm aware it sounds like a child's whinge. "I mean, I guess Daphne likes you as well as she likes anyone, and my sisters are too young to really know, but my father's never going to forgive you for being the Mage's Heir, not to mention his only son's _boyfriend_."

Simon shrugs. "I don't really care what he thinks."

And there's the big difference between us. Simon's great at deciding to just not care about something if it's not important to him personally. But I can't do that so easily, and even if I could, this is my _father_. He was my hero growing up, and even though he and I don't see eye to eye on everything -- on a lot of things -- these days, I can't let go of the feeling that I really want to do anything to make him proud.

Maybe I _should_ talk to that therapist.

Simon makes a little humming sound and squeezes my wrists. "I'm hungry."

That makes me giggle, and I hide my face against the side of his neck. "Of course you are."

"Can you spell my wings and tail before we go down?"

"You don't want to make my sisters cry again?"

He makes an amused huff. "Not really."

Yesterday -- Christmas Day -- we forgot and went down to breakfast with all his dragon parts _au naturale_ and it caused quite a commotion. Dad and Daphne knew, of course, even if they'd never seen them before, but I don't think the girls even knew that Simon's got extra body parts that aren't usually visible. Mordelia handled it well, but not the others.

I give him another squeeze and reluctantly let go. My wand is still in the pocket of my dressing gown from yesterday morning, so I wrap up in it before I take care of Simon. He and Penny finally sat me down and made me watch _Star Wars_ so I can cast **These aren't the droids you're looking for,** which is still the best one we've found to let him walk around in public without creating a scene.

He suppresses a shudder when my magic goes into him and his wings and tail disappear; he always does when I do spells on him. I try not to talk to him about it, I know it's to do with him having lost his own magic and that mine is always burning hot. Penny's isn't, her magic is soft and warm and grass-green, it's comfortable to him. She's his best friend, it ought to be. But mine is fire, and fire can't help but burn.

I try not to wish that he still had his own. It still breaks my heart, how much he lost. How much he _gave up_. I thought maybe time would dull the sting but it hasn't, so far, for either of us. After a year it's as fresh as ever.

He's stepped away now, leaving me standing in the middle of the room, lost in my own thoughts. He digs a pair of socks out of his bag and sits on the edge of the bed to pull them on, then steps back over to me and tucks my hair behind my ear. "Hey. You okay?"

I try to force a smile, but I'm sure it comes out more like a grimace. "Yeah, fine."

He tips his head. "Baz."

I look away and press my lips together. "Sorry, I just ... I don't like it when my magic hurts you."

The back of his hand strokes my cheek, rubbing on the stubble. (I need a shave.) "Your magic doesn't hurt me," he says gently.

I catch his hand with mine and hold it. "You're sure?"

"Of course."

"And you'd tell me if it did?"

He smiles, and he looks like the sun. My stomach flutters. "Oh, you would know," he says. "You'd be eating a knuckle sandwich."

I find myself smiling back at him. "I should get Bunce to cast some kind of Boyfriend's Anathema to protect me."

He laughs, then steps away and pulls a pyjama shirt out of his bag, which is on the couch on the far wall. (I'm pretty sure my parents put me in this room hoping he'd sleep on the couch and not in the bed. There are enough rooms in this house that we could have separate, but the first time we came he just sort of moved in here with me, so they didn't even make up the other room this time.) "Come on, let's go to breakfast, I'm starving." He picks up a hair elastic from the bedside table and shoots it at me, which catches me off-guard, and I drop it. "Tame that thing on your head," he says lightly, and I giggle.

"It's not half as bad as yours." But I'm running my fingers through it anyway, pulling it back into something messy that at least keeps it off my face.

"Yeah, but you're fancy," Snow says, opening the door. "I'm the fallen Chosen One, they expect me to look a fright."

I catch his wrist, and cast a quick **Be our guest** on him, just to be safe. I can see him try not to shudder again, and he gives me a bright smile. (I don't understand how he's still so brave, even after everything.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nemesis mine: http://www.harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=327
> 
> (updated this chapter since I made some changes while I was writing the rest)


	2. Chapter 2

_-Simon-_

Baz's dad and stepmum are in the breakfast room when we get downstairs, but the girls aren't; I'm not sure whether they're still in bed or got up really early, it kind of goes both ways with kids, I guess.

Daphne gives me a warm "good morning" that I'm fairly certain is genuine; I think she does actually like me, and she's happy about me and Baz being a couple. Despite what Baz believes, I don't think she ever really disliked me very strongly, even back when everyone was convinced I was a spy or out to get them. In the year since everything changed people definitely treat me differently, especially the Old Families like the Grimm-Pitches -- I'm less of a threat and more of a curiosity.

Mr Grimm sets down his tablet -- looks like he's been reading a newspaper on it -- and gives us a tight smile. "Good morning Basilton, Simon. Sleep well?"

Baz scowls. "Fine, thanks."

"Still warm enough in that room for you?"

His scowl deepens and he stalks to the sideboard where food is set out. "Yes, Father, it's _fine_." He's lying, I know he was cold last night. It was too hot for me with the fire going, so we banked it and Baz did his best do wrap himself in every blanket he could find and cuddle up next to me. The first night here was okay, but last night was colder and we both woke up when I went to use the loo, and he was shivering so I told him to just light the fire again and I slept in my pants and sweated a little.

I step over next to him, and he flinches slightly, then forces himself to relax. "Crowley, Baz, take it easy," I whisper.

"It looks like we're going to be stuck in here today," Mr Grimm says, as though Baz and I aren't having a moment. "Roads are impassable, so nobody's coming or going until they get cleared."

Baz gives me a look that seems to say "can you fucking believe this?" then drops several slices of bread into the toaster and pushes them down. "I wasn't planning on staying this long," he says to his father.

"You can do laundry if you need to," Daphne offers, and Baz rolls his eyes.

"I'm fine on laundry, but I've got things I need to do at home. I need to get ready for the next term of school."

Mr Grimm makes an annoyed sound, and it's suddenly clear where Baz gets that particular mannerism. "Basilton, really, it's not going to kill you to spend a week with your family. Today's the twenty-sixth of December and your next term doesn't start until ninth January, you've got plenty of time to learn the curriculum before the first day of class."

I giggle, and Baz gives me a dark look. "Snow's got things to do, too, don't you? You told me you need to install a new testing environment for the comp sci course you're doing this spring."

I know what he's trying to do, but even though I love him I can't help but fuck with him sometimes. "Yeah, but I've got my laptop here and we do have internet access. I can do it today, it'll only take a couple of hours and I can download a PDF of my textbook if I need it."

He sneers at me, and I can tell he's resisting the urge to spit something really mean at me. The toast pops up, and he grabs all four slices for himself before taking the jar of apricot jam and plopping sullenly into a chair as far from his father as he can manage. If his hair wasn't pulled back right now, I have no doubt he'd be hiding behind it.

He's going to need a while for his strop, so I turn my attention to the food that's set out. There's not very much, and no protein -- Baz's family haven't got the hang of feeding me. Luckily I'm pretty handy in the kitchen, and I know the refrigerator's well-stocked, so I head through to fix something for myself.

When I come back ten minutes later with a plate full of scrambled eggs, Baz has his phone out on the table in front of him and a cup of tea in his hand, and the set of his shoulders has relaxed a little. Daphne has left, but Mr Grimm is still there, and still ignoring us for his tablet. I set four slices of bread to toast, then pour myself some tea, and I can feel Baz watching me so I look up and give him a smile.

He seems surprised at first, and then smiles back just a little -- his fangs are big right now, so it shows a lot of teeth, but he's not making an effort to hide them, which is a good indicator that his mood has improved. "How many eggs did you make?"

I try to think back. "Six?"

His smile reaches his eyes. "I hope you didn't leave a mess for Mrs Richardson."

"I'll clean it up when I'm done." Mrs Richardson is their chef here, one of four staff who live in the house, along with the girls' nanny, a housekeeper, and a groundskeeper. The housekeeper and Mrs R both have magic, but the other two are Normals. Baz has explained to me how they manage to make it work, but I don't really remember -- it seems really complicated and it's not my problem so I don't bother.

I like Mrs Richardson a lot. I met her the last time we came up here, which was also my first time, the weekend of Baz's birthday at the end of October. She worked for them at their old place in Hampshire, too, but I never met her the time I was there. Her magic isn't particularly strong, so she mostly cooks like a Normal, and she's brilliant at it. I've started learning to cook in the past few months (Baz jokingly refers to it as occupational therapy) and it turns out I love it, so I make a point to spend some time with Mrs R when we're here, help her out and try to learn something. Baz and his family don't get it, but they don't have to.

My toast is ready, so I take my plate to the table and sit down next to Baz, who stops reading his phone to watch me pile a slice of bread with eggs and then give it a squiggle of brown sauce for good measure before I take down half of it in a single bite. "You eat like a starving animal," he says.

He always says that. I think he likes it. I smile at him while I chew.

 

 

We go back upstairs after we've eaten and I've cleaned the mess I made in the kitchen. (All on my own, I might add -- Baz didn't lift a finger, even though it would've taken half as long if he'd bothered to cast **A place for everything, and everything in its place**. Putting things away in that place took twice as long as getting them out since I didn't remember where they came from.)

The room we're staying in has an ensuite, and Baz heads in to shower. I know he's going to be a while, since he wants to shave, and when it's cold like this he likes to stay under the hot spray for as long as he can. I pull the curtains wide open and loop them over the tie-backs to get as much light in as possible -- it's still dreary outside and the snow is still coming down like there's no tomorrow, but it brightens the space. This is as good a time as any to get working on that program install, since Baz reminded me of it at breakfast, so I get out my laptop, trail the cord across the room, then sit cross-legged on the bed and pull up Professor Wolcott's website.

The course I'm starting in January is an introduction to mobile app design, and technically I'm supposed to be more familiar with programming languages than I am, but I had the same professor for my intro to computer science course in the autumn, and apparently I'm gifted at it or something because I got perfect marks all term, and then she specifically suggested to me that I take this course next, even though it's upper level and I'm missing a couple of prereqs. I've actually registered to take one at the same time, which she said is fine, though between those and Calc 2 I'm a little worried that I won't have time to breathe, much less get a passing mark in 20th Century world history.

I start the download, and the dialog says it's going to take twenty minutes, so I set the computer aside to do its thing and take out my phone instead. I send Penny a self-congratulatory text letting her know that I'm actually being responsible and starting my schoolwork more than a day before it needs to be done. Thirty seconds later I get her reply: a selfie of her giving me a corny thumbs-up.

I think Penny was the only one who wasn't astonished by my aptitude with comp sci. Surprised, sure, but not astonished -- Baz was convinced something had gone wrong when I got my first exam back. I had to look at it twenty times before it sunk in that I had actually done that. Professor Wolcott had even written "great work, Simon!!" on it in her green pen. Two exclamation points!

Language has never come that easily for me, but numbers have always made sense, and programming is more like numbers than words. If you write exactly what you mean, you get what you intend. There's no shades of meaning, no metaphor or double entendre or historical significance. Just code. And Penny knows me better than anybody, she knows I've always done best with things that are really concrete. I'm sure my trouble with the academics at Watford made her think I wasn't very smart in general (and, I love her, but she doesn't need help thinking that of anyone), and until a year ago none of us ever bothered to consider that there would be a life for me that wasn't about magic.

Anyway, it turns out that I'm pretty good at computer stuff, and I like it quite a lot, I just never had a chance to find out before. And it feels good, it feels _great_ , to have any kind of an idea of what the rest of my life is going to look like. I lived moment-to-moment for nineteen years and it's only now I realize how relaxing it can be to know that there's something out there for you that's even a little certain. To know that you've got something going for you.

Part of me wonders if this is some of Baz's influence. He's an absurd planner, can't leave anything up to chance, except for the things he calculates to leave to chance, which is just ridiculous to me. But I know he worried about me, about what I would do. What I _could_ do, without magic.

I shake myself -- I don't want to think about that right now. Baggage for another time.

I pull a book out of my bag: a hefty Mary Berry cookbook, which was actually a Christmas gift from Baz's parents yesterday, and a surprisingly thoughtful one. I can't really tell if they gave it to me because they know it's a hobby, or if they think Baz has been looking thin and they're expecting me to feed him up. (He _is_ looking thin -- he's busy and school is stressful. But it's not that bad, he's not ill, he just forgets to eat sometimes in between everything, and he likes to go running to unwind at the end of the day, so he's lost a few pounds this semester.) (I can't imagine ever _forgetting to eat_ but apparently this is a thing that happens to some people.)

I set it on the duvet in front of me and open the cover, and then notice a little inscription in Daphne's round handwriting:

 _To Simon Snow, Christmas 2016_  
_Thank you for being with us this year, and for looking after Basilton in London. He tells us you like baking and that you both miss the scones from Watford, hopefully this book can help you replicate them.  
_ _Love, the Grimm Family._

I stare at it for a long minute, trying to cope with the fact that I'm unexpectedly choked up about this. Once I've collected myself I flip to the table of contents, and sure enough, scones. I read through the recipe; it seems simple enough, but with baking the devil's always in the details. This recipe doesn't have anything added to them, but I'm guessing I can just add cherries to the dough. I'll have to look next time I'm in Tesco and see what they have.

There's a notebook in my bag; I pull it out, flip to a fresh page, and start making notes about what Penny and I have at home already, and what I'll need to buy. Do we have self-raising flour, or is it normal? I can't remember right now. Maybe we have both?

I'm so engrossed in the recipe that Baz startles me when he opens the bathroom door and floats out in a cloud of steam. He smells great, clean and fresh, and his hair is combed back and wet, though it looks like he's towelled off the ends that fall to his shoulders. He's wearing jeans and an undershirt, and I change my mind about his build -- he's still well fit, just not so bulky now as he was back at Watford, when he was training for the football team all the time. But he did lose a lot of weight during his kidnapping and never quite gained it all back (he's fully a stone lighter now than he was before), so his old clothes are a little too big, especially in the shoulders. He keeps some of those old clothes here, to wear when he's visiting, so he doesn't have to pack as much. These jeans are newer, though, and perfectly fitted: they hug his legs and arse in a way that's almost obscene, make him look even taller than he is, even in bare feet.

He bends over his bag and takes out a shirt, then pulls a forest green jumper out of the chest of drawers. "Simon," he says, without looking at me, "you're staring."

I swallow. "Yeah, I know."

He turns and gives me a little smile, then shrugs into his shirt. "Go have your shower. I tried to leave some hot water for you."

 


	3. Chapter 3

_-Simon-_

We're the only ones still in this room, whatever it's called. (I can't keep track of all the rooms in this place. It's not as big as the house in Hampshire, but it's still excessive.) Baz's parents and sisters spent the first part of the afternoon here with us, but they all left at various times over the past hour, heading off to different diversions or possibly just warmer rooms. The fire in here is still going strong (though I shouldn't be surprised, since everyone in the family is so strong with fire magic) but the snow is now four feet high against the doors out to the garden and it's getting chilly. I don't really mind, I'm almost never cold, and Baz isn't complaining right now, with me as his personal space heater. We're both sitting on the floor in front of the hearth wrapped in a big woollen blanket, and we had been playing card games, though now we're just sitting here bundled together, lazily doing nothing on our phones while the meagre sunlight there was outside gives way to night.

Baz sighs and leans into me. "I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"

I'm scrolling through Penny's Instagram -- she's in the south of France with her family. "I am, a little. When's dinner?"

"Seven." He checks the time on his phone. "It's only four now. We should have a snack, probably."

I look up at that. "I'd eat a snack. Is there more of that cheese from yesterday?"

He twists so he can see me and gives me a warm smile. "I bet there is. We can get you some cheese and crackers and I'll have my blood for the day."

 

_-Baz-_

 

Simon holds my hand while we walk to the kitchen. I'm a little bit nervous that we'll run into my father, but there's only a few of us rattling around in this big old house and we don't see anybody. I don't know why I'm still worried about my father seeing us doing couple-type things, since we're staying in the same room while we're here which makes it pretty fucking obvious that we're shagging. I mean, I suppose there is a chance we could deny it, we did live in the same room for so long.  But we've been together for a year, he's nineteen and I just turned twenty, obviously we have sex.  Plus, I mean, you don't just bring someone home for Christmas two years in a row unless there's something between you.

Mrs Richardson isn't working on dinner yet, so we have the kitchen to ourselves. Simon goes straight to the big fridge and pulls out three foil-wrapped blocks. I head into the pantry and toss him a box of crackers, then pull open the mini-fridge that was put there for my benefit and extract a quart jar. I'm very glad I brought a few extra, since I'd hate to be stuck in here with my family for two extra days without any blood to drink.

Penelope Bunce was really instrumental in figuring out the best way for me to get blood in civilisation, and to be frank I'm embarrassed that it never occurred to me, and a bit angry at the adults in my life for not thinking of it. Really, Father, I know you don't want to admit your son is a vampire, but is it honestly better to keep fucking deer stocked in the woods and to let me hunt rats in the catacombs than to just tell me you can _buy_ animal blood legally, without raising many questions? It might not have worked at Watford, but at home, at least, it would have made life easier.

To be fair, though, refrigerated pig's blood from the butcher is not half as good as drinking it fresh from a doe, and it's even slightly worse than killing a rat or a squirrel, especially when it's cold. But it's much more convenient, and I'm especially bloody thankful for that right now since I'd probably freeze to death outside before I found something I could drink. (Would I actually freeze to death? I don't want to find out.) (Plus Simon wouldn't let me go alone, and he _would_ freeze to death, the cocksure idiot.)

But Penny didn't just realize that you can simply buy blood, though, she also worked with me to figure out a way to make it more palatable. Heating by Normal means was obviously out -- nobody human wants their kitchen smelling of blood, which it does if you do it on the hob or in the microwave, plus if you overdo it it tends to clot, which is sort of disgusting, even to me. Luckily two of the three of us still have magic. **Some like it hot** may be great for scones and tea, but it does tend to overshoot and burn delicate things, even when cast by a skilled mage who doesn't have fire in his blood. **You're getting warmer** is a bit better, but it does still go too much, too fast on occasion -- I've ruined a lot of blood even when I was being careful. What I really needed was something weak, but those are hard to find, and rightly so.

The three of us were hanging out, listening to music and spitballing spells when we figured it out. It was Penny who realized it could be a spell, though I like to think I'm the one who worked out the logistics; it's actually a pretty devilishly complicated little bit of magic in this application, which makes it perfect: I've never cast it strongly, even when I'm hungry and my control is poor.

The lyric is **She keeps me warm.** It seems like it should be better for helping with loneliness or hypothermia or something, which may be why it's so good for me -- its usefulness relies on technicalities. Technically some of the blood I drink comes from female animals. And when it's at body temperature, it really does keep me warm; Simon's told me more than once that my temperature is noticeably higher after I've fed. Penny also thinks it works partially by a play on words: my ability to drink palatable blood keeps me from going "hot" and attacking people. Simon doesn't believe that one, and I'm unsure.

In any case, I usually cast **She keeps me warm** on my day's serving of blood three or four times -- and I do have to sing it, it doesn't work at all otherwise, so I usually do the bit from the chorus where it repeats -- and that brings it up to human body temperature, which is what tastes best, especially with pig's blood.

Another interesting technicality of the spell -- one which at first led us to believing that it didn't work at all -- is that so far I'm the only person who's ever cast it successfully. The going theory is that it only works for queer people, but with only two data points (Basil, gay: yes; Penelope, straight: no) it's hardly conclusive. I wonder if Simon could cast it, if he still had magic. (He does now accept the label _bisexual_ , after his therapist told him he should probably consider it. I was a little surprised she just _gave_ him a label, but he wasn't getting there on his own, and I think she finally got sick of him worrying at the gay-or-not thing since he really does have much bigger problems.) There's a multitude of reasons we've never told anyone else about it, but I'm probably the only person in the world who both needs it and could cast it, so it doesn't really matter whether it works in anyone else's wand but mine.

 

_-Simon-_

 

I love it when Baz casts the spell to warm up his blood. From a simple point of view, it's a pretty song, and he has a great voice. He's always been especially good with rhymes and lyrics. I can't sing for crap, so I was always jealous of him on that front.

But I also love it because we made it just for him. Well, I didn't have a whole lot to do with it myself, but I was there while he and Penny were figuring it out, so I feel like I'm entitled to take some credit.  It's special, it's _his_.

This kitchen is big and echoey so the whole room reverberates with his magic while he holds the jar gently in his hands and sings. When he decides it's warm enough, he tucks his wand in the back pocket of his jeans, then takes a deep drink.

"Well," he says, words muddied by his fangs, which prevent his mouth from closing all the way, "aren't you going to eat?"

I look down at the packaged cheese and crackers on the counter in front of me. "I need a knife."

He looks around the kitchen, and for a second he looks lost -- this place is huge, and he hasn't spent much time here. "I don't know where they are."

"Can't you magic one up for me?"

He gives me a look I know well, though it doesn't make me feel as stupid as it did when we were kids. "I'm not going to make a _knife_ come flying at you magickally, because I don't want you to _die_. I'm sure there's cutlery in a drawer somewhere, find it the Normal way."

It takes me a minute to find what I'm looking for, by which point Baz has drunk half his jar of blood and is looking less grey than usual. "You were thirsty," I remark.

He shrugs. "Yeah." Like it's no big deal that he's a vampire and we're sitting in this absurd kitchen and he's drinking blood from a mason jar while I eat imported cheese. Totally normal.

 

 

After we eat, we find ourselves back in the same room where we were before, sitting on the couch this time and wrapped in the same blanket. Baz is always warmer and softer after he's had blood, and he's cuddled up against me, one arm around my shoulders and the other hand brushing against my hip, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. I place my hands on his belly, stroking -- he always loves this, and today is no exception. His eyes close and he makes a little sigh of contentment, and I press a gentle kiss to the underside of his chin. He twitches -- he's ticklish there -- and looks down at me with love in his eyes. "What are you doing, Snow?"

"Kissing you."

He grins and his face goes a little pink, and he grips my hip more firmly. "That's one way to pass the afternoon."

"I'd like to be doing more, though."

Baz raises his eyebrows. "You what?"

Oh, crap on a cracker, this always happens, I try to put the moves on but I'm the least suave person in existence and I just make a fool of myself instead. I think Baz likes it, though? Sometimes?

"I mean, if you want to. I know it's probably weird, since it's your parents' house and everything, and your dad doesn't much like me." Shit, now I'm babbling, and I can tell I'm going bright red. Baz's face is unreadable. "So I mean, you know ... if you want to, that would be fun? But I get it if you don't want to, it's fine."

He stares blankly at me for another moment, and then he barks out a laugh and his face lights up. "Simon, do you _listen_ to yourself?"

I'm definitely blushing. "What?"

"You're ridiculous." He leans in and kisses me firmly, and his lips are slightly warmer than room temperature -- that's right, he did just drink a quart of blood.

"I'm ridiculous? What's ridiculous about me? You're the ridiculous one." At this point I don't know what I'm saying, but his reaction is favourable and I'm feeling a little desperate to get my hands on his bare skin.

"Simon Snow," Baz says, and the way he pronounces my name makes it sound like a love letter. He crawls on top of me a bit, leaning over and down so our faces are very close. "We are young, we're in love, we have a _huge_ house at our disposal, and I am trying really hard not to care about what my father approves of. You're ridiculous to think I don't want to make love to you every minute of every day."

He kisses me again, and I grip his waist to hold him against me. He's starting to get hard against my thigh, and when I move slightly, he grinds into me and gasps. '"Fuck."

"Are we doing this here?"

He pauses, shakes his head, grimaces. "Oh, Merlin, that's probably a bad idea." He sounds breathless and sits up a little; I feel cold without him. "Them knowing is one thing, but getting an eyeful is another."

"That's true."

He stands up, throwing the blanket aside, then casts **Make a wish** at the fireplace before he takes my hand and pulls me upstairs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She Keeps Me Warm: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rG4nRI9Wmzk


	4. Chapter 4

_-Baz-_

I feel giddy. Aleister Crowley, how does he do it? How does Simon Snow make me feel so alive?

We get up to our bedroom and I lock the door behind us before he wraps his arms around me and flings us both onto the bed. I laugh in delight; he can barely stop grinning enough to kiss me.

After a moment we do sit up, and I pull off my jumper just in time for him to start unbuttoning my shirt. When he gets to the bottom he unbuttons my jeans as well, and even though I'm full hard and aching to have him unzip them I reach for his clothing instead, unfastening the few buttons that are done on his shirt before I push it off his shoulders and then tug the t-shirt over his head.

His chest is as gorgeous as ever, golden and spotted in a way I've made a study of memorising, and the light in here is low and romantic and makes him look a bit like he's glowing. He takes advantage of my distraction to tug my shirt out of my jeans and slide the zip down. "Hang on," I gasp; I can't get these jeans off while I'm sitting, they're too snug. I stand up and shimmy them off along with my pants, while Simon sits on the edge of the bed and similarly divests himself of his clothing. One of his wings appears suddenly while he's working on his socks, and then the other one, a few seconds later.

Okay, so, I know I'm pretty fucked up. But I'll take it, and I fully own that I love -- _love_ \-- Simon's wings and tail. I don't know why, and I think I don't want to find out why, but I really do, and I'm beyond happy that the spell wore off right at this moment.

He grabs my hand when we're both naked and we slide into the bed. I'm not cold right now, I'm still warm from the blood a little while ago, and his skin is hot against mine and it's the best I've ever felt in my life.

We're kissing like we need each other to live, and he rolls us so I'm on my back and he's on top of me and his wings push the duvet halfway off him. My cock is throbbing against his hip, and his against mine, and we're rocking into each other almost without thought. He shifts his hips a bit -- just an inch to the side -- and our cocks touch, and the friction is incredible, and I see stars for a moment.

Simon groans, whispers my name. "Baz?"

I've forgotten how to speak, but I make an effort to remember. "What."

"I want to be inside you."

My whole body tingles. Making love with Simon feels like doing magic. "Oh, yes."

He pulls back a little, and I'm confused for half a second. "Here, let's turn over," he breathes, and we swap places.

I swing my leg across his hips and straddle his thighs, then pull the bunched-up duvet against the small of my back. He's spread out below me, red wings stretched across the bed, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, grinning like an idiot. I take his cock in my hand and his eyes flutter shut, his hips press up towards me. "Crowley ..." he groans.

"You brought condoms?"

"Yeah, uh. I think I put them in the drawer." He points to the bedside table, but he can't reach it; I stretch over and sure enough, there's a short string of them. I pull one off, leaving the rest where they were, then tear open the packet.

I roll it down him, and it's kind of difficult, because it's so slick and my hands are trembling a little bit with excitement. But I get it on, and he's watching me with half-lidded eyes, and he grasps me around my ribs and pulls me down and kisses me again. He bends his knees a little, tipping me farther forward, pushing me into his embrace; his thighs are warm on the backs of my legs. I shift my weight, rubbing myself up along his length, and he reaches between my legs with a finger slick with lube that he must have swiped out of the empty condom packet. I'm gasping now, while he fingers me, my eyes squeezed shut, and I don't really know whether it's so that his touch will be my entire world or because I can't handle any other input right now.

His finger brushes my prostate, and I grit my teeth, trying not to come on the spot. (He hasn't even _touched_ my cock, the wanker.) "Okay, okay," I say, trying not to sound like I'm about to shatter. I don't know how long this has been going on (it could be ten seconds, it could be a lifetime) but I need more than a finger and I need it _now_.

_-Simon-_

Baz's arms are shaking a little while he holds himself up, hunched over me, and his whole body is flushed slightly pink; his cock is rosy and full, his bollocks are heavy on my wrist, and his breath is coming in little raspy gusts and it's so intensely erotic it's hard to believe it's actually happening. I withdraw my hand when he says he's ready, and he gives me a desperate kiss before he presses on my chest to lift himself up.

I stroke myself a couple of times to make sure I'm fully hard, and then hold it by the base to keep it steady for him. He braces one hand on my sternum, licks his lips, and sinks down.

He's incredibly tight, and he's breathing through his nose in a measured way with his lips pressed together. I asked him once if it hurts, doing this, and he didn't really answer me. So I know it does, but he's always eager to do it, and he's always really into it once we get going, so I try to trust him during this part instead of begging him to stop.

After a long minute his thighs are pressed against my hips, and he lets out a sigh, then shifts his weight slightly, and reaches behind him to pull the duvet up onto his shoulders. And then he rolls his pelvis, and we both groan, and he's setting up a slow rhythm, up and down, front and back, rolling waves of sensation. I slide my hands up his thighs to his hips, not to try to control, but just to be present, just to hold him.

He leans down over my chest, kisses me deeply, then looks me in the eye and whispers with magic in his voice:

" **Let not my love be call'd idolatry,  
****Nor my beloved as an idol show...** "

Oh fuck, Merlin, _fuck_ , he's doing the old vowels. He's riding me and casting fucking _Shakespeare_ and for a moment I'm convinced that this is the thing that's going to kill me. Like this was his long game: seduce Simon, sex with magickal Shakespeare, Simon implodes, Baz wins.

" **Since all alike my songs and praises be  
****To one, of one, still such, and ever so.** "

He's lifted himself up a bit, grinding into me harder now, and he punctuates the commas with little gasps. He sounds like he's praying. I think maybe he is.

" **Kind is my love today, tomorrow kind,  
** **Still constant in a wondrous excellence;  
** **Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd  
****One thing expressing, leaves out difference.** "

This bit is louder, but not like he's doing it for emphasis, more like he's letting go, losing control. I can feel his magic: it warms his whole body, and his hands on my chest are hot, and it's melting down into me. I have no idea what this spell will do. Probably nothing? It's too hard to focus on anything but him so I just give up and let his voice pull me under.

" **Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,  
** **Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;  
** **And in this change is my invention spent,  
****Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.** "

His voice is deeper, breathless, and he's moving faster, panting a little. It's all I can do to keep my hands on his hips and not simply vaporise. I'm close, I'm _so_ close, and I'm sure he is too. Somehow he's still holding eye contact, and I can barely breathe for anticipation.

" **Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone,  
****Which three, till now, never kept seat in one.** "

The rhythm of his hips falters with the skip in the metre of the song, and as soon as the last syllable is out of his throat his head tips back and he gasps like he's drowning and I don't know what happens next because I'm coming as hard as I ever have in my life and his magic is burning us both alive and the whole universe is _Basilton Pitch_.

 

_-Baz-_

I don't know exactly what happened, and I think I might have blacked out for a second, but I feel like I've had an out-of-body experience, which is a little weird because it was also the most intensely physical thing I've ever done and I've never been quite so aware of my body.

I feel boneless and I want to collapse on the bed but I don't want to hurt Simon, and he's still sprawled out, wings taking up every space that I could otherwise occupy. And I'm not going to lie on top of him, he's sweaty and my semen is splattered up to his chest.

My head is heavy; I love him but I need to lie down. "Budge over."

He shuffles a little, folding one wing away, and I lay down beside him; he wraps his arm around my shoulders and holds me close, presses a lazy kiss into my hair. "I love you," he mumbles.

Before I can even think about controlling myself, I start to cry; a little sob rips out of my chest and tears fill my eyes out of nowhere. I curl into his side, press my face into his shoulder. He grips me tighter, and I let go.

It doesn't last long, maybe a couple of minutes, but I feel burned out at the end, emotionally and physically and magickally, from the unexpected weeping and the intense sex and casting a sonnet onto nothing but myself and a whole day of being really wound up and probably a thousand other things leading up to this particular moment of my life. I roll back a little to breathe, and Simon is watching me, a look of concern on his face. "You okay?"

I nod, sniffle, wipe my nose with the back of my hand. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I'm okay."

"You sure? You've never done that before."

I nod. "It's fine, I'm okay. It was just really intense."

He smiles softly. "It was. That was Shakespeare, yeah?"

I'm starting to feel calm now, contented; afterglow is finally hitting me and I relax into Simon's touch. "Yeah. Sonnet 105."

"I've never heard it before."

"It's not very popular. Critics bash it for being repetitive. But that's why I like it. 'S more like singing that way, fits it."

"Is it a real spell?"

"No. I just like it and I wanted to experiment."

"What did it do?"

I shrug. "Don't know. Nothing, maybe."

"Your hands got really hot," he says, and that's a surprise to me.

"Really?"

"Yeah, it felt just like your magic, and you were kind of pressing it into me so I got all filled up with it myself."

I turn to look at him. "Are _you_ okay?"

He gives me a face like that's a silly thing to ask. "Of course I'm okay. Your magic doesn't hurt me, remember? I kind of liked it, actually."

"Kind of?"

He lets out a nervous giggle. "Okay, it was insanely hot."

"Wow."

"What did you think would happen?"

I sigh. "I guess something like that. I didn't really want to think about it though, I just went for it."

He grins. "There you go. Something to be said for not thinking, yeah?"

My heart swells with love, and I roll to kiss him again. "Don't make me admit you were right all along, I can't cope with the upset to my entire philosophy of life."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shakespeare's sonnet 105, with some commentary: http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/sonnet/105
> 
> There is one more chapter after this, threads to wrap up. Stay tuned!


	5. Chapter 5

_-Baz-_

Simon's hair is still wild when we go back downstairs, and I halfway hope that I look as thoroughly well-fucked as I feel. I'm so happy right now I'm even letting him hold my hand, and damn who sees.

My father does, as it turns out. We walk past his study and he notices and calls to me. "Basilton?"

We stop; Simon gives me a concerned look and I smile to let him know I'm okay, I've got this. "Library's the third door on the left, I'll be right there."

"Okay." He squeezes my hand one more time, then turns away down the hall.

I take a breath -- really, why am I nervous? I've just decided I didn't care if he disapproves -- and step back to the doorway. "Father."

"Come in, come in," he says. "You don't have to lurk in the hall."

I come into the room. It's warm in here, he's got a strong fire going. Not for the first time, I think how glad I am that this house has such an excess of fireplaces. "What is it?"

"I wanted to check in with you. We haven't really had a chance to talk, just you and I."

He's right, we haven't. It's been quite a while since we last had a conversation, months probably. Even when I came for my birthday in October, my visit was so quick we didn't really get a chance. "Yeah."

"Are you doing all right?"

I cross my arms and look down at my feet. "Yeah, I'm good. Things are ... good."

"Basilton." His voice is soft. "Why don't you talk to me any more?"

It's hard to meet his gaze, but I make myself do it. "I ... I don't know. Maybe we don't have much to talk about."

He shakes his head. "You know that's not true. You've always talked to me about everything, about school, about your athletics, your friends. What's changed?"

"Nothing's changed," I say, and we both know it's a lie.

He sighs; I'm not saying what he wants me to say. "This is about Simon Snow, isn't it?"

"I don't know," I say, deciding that maybe defensive is the direction I want to take this. "Is it?"

He looks a little sad. "I know he's a big part of your life now."

"He was always a big part of my life. We bloody _lived_ together for seven and a half years."

"You know that's not what I mean. Things are ... different between you now."

"And they have been for a year, what's your point?" I'm pushing back now, daring him to fight me on this.

"My point _is_ ," he begins forcefully, then pauses. "My point is," he says, more gently, "I don't want you to feel like your relationship with me has to be different because you're with Simon."

"Doesn't it." I'm done with this, done pretending with him that Simon isn't the centre of my world. I'll stand my ground on this one: I'm not going to be two different people to keep him happy.

"No, it doesn't." He stands up and walks around the desk in my direction, but stops before he gets to me and leans back against it, hands in his pockets. "You're still my son. I know you're a young man now, off on your own in London, and you've got some rebellion that you need to get out."

My mouth drops open before I can stop it. "Being with Simon isn't me being _rebellious_! This is who I _am_ , Father."

"No, no, I know that. That's not what I meant." He stops for a moment, thinking. "What I'm trying to say is that I know you want to be independent, you're not my little boy any more. You've changed. But you can be yourself, and you can have Simon, and you're still a part of this family. You still have a home here."

That is really not what I was expecting to hear, and it takes me a minute to figure out a reaction. "Oh. Um."

Definitely not the best reaction I've ever had.

Father gives me a little smile. "I really mean that. Your mother and I have been talking about it ever since you and Simon came to visit in September. You seemed distant then, and I know that Simon had been your boyfriend for a while at that point, but I think it was to do with him. With your ... relationship."

I purse my lips; he's right but I don't feel like telling him so. I do anyway. "Yeah."

"You started seeing a lot more of him after you finished at Watford."

"Yeah." I get an awful thought. "Are you saying that he's a bad influence on me?"

My father makes a little amused rumble. "No, Basilton, I'm not saying that. You changed, though."

"I became more myself."

"I know. What I'm trying to say is that this new version of you is still my son."

I don't know what to say. He's said it twice now, but as of five minutes ago I was so convinced that he would never, _ever_ say this to me that I don't really know how to react.

Father peers at me. "Basilton?"

"Yeah, um, sorry." I blink a few times, hard, trying to force the prickle out of my eyes. "I mean, uh. Thank you. It really means a lot to hear that, from you."

He stands up straight -- I'm as tall as he is now -- and lays his hand on my shoulder. "I know I'm not someone who does change easily."

"There's a reason the old ways survived."

"Exactly. But what I'm saying is, you're more important than traditions. I want you to be happy, and if Simon makes you happy, then I want you to be with him."

I'm not able to stop myself from tearing up a little now. I duck my chin so at least I don't have to look at him while I'm getting emotional, and he pats my shoulder and steps back.

"I just wanted to be sure you knew that, that you're always welcome here. You'll always be my son."

I manage to look up at him. "And what about Simon?"

"Well, he's not family, but he's welcome here any time you bring him."

I don't know what this sensation is in my chest, but it's a relief. I give him half a smile. "Thank you."

He nods at the door. "Go to him. I'm sure he's having trouble finding an electric outlet in the library."

I let out a little laugh. "I'm sure he is."

I'm in the doorway when my father clears his throat, and I turn back. "What?"

"Just, um, one more thing." He walks close and lowers his voice. "I'd prefer that you didn't have sex with him here, but if you must, at least don't cast sonnets while you're doing it?"

Icy-cold panic shoots through me and I stare at him, fully unable to move or even breathe. He seems to take this as an invitation to continue. "Mordelia heard you, and we really would have liked to not have to explain that to her just yet."

I'm pretty sure that every drop of blood in my body has rushed to my face, and my ears even start to buzz a little. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, and he turns away anyway, back to his desk and whatever he was working on before. I take this as a dismissal.

It's not dignified, but I scamper down the hall into the library and shut the door behind me a bit harder than I mean to. Simon looks up in alarm. "You all right?"

"He _knows,_ " I hiss.

"What? He knows what?"

"He knows that we were shagging."

Simon smiles crookedly. "Yeah? I thought you were okay with that."

"Yeah, and so is he, sort of, but ..." I'm so embarrassed I can barely get it out; I hide behind my hands to say it. "Mordelia heard me casting the sonnet."

Simon's eyes widen. "Oh, shit."

I grimace. "Yeah."

"That's not good."

"No, it's not." I take a breath, trying to calm myself. "It's not ... awful, though. I guess. I suppose things are actually fine. Or, well, okay."

"Is that what he wanted to talk to you about?"

I'm feeling more centred now that I'm over the panic of being overheard while we were doing something so intimate; I run a hand through my hair and relax a little. "No, mostly just about you and me, our relationship. Basically he told me he's okay with it."

Simon's face brightens "That's great!"

I can't help but smile at him. "Yeah, it is. But then he ruined it a bit when he said my sister heard us shagging and he had to explain it to her."

Simon laughs at that, a big, hearty laugh, head thrown back and everything. "Did he really tell you not shag your boyfriend under his roof?"

"No, he told me not to recite sixteenth century love songs with magic while I do it."

He's still laughing, and slides his arms around my waist. I surrender to his touch, enveloping his shoulders, and I kiss his nose, then his lips. "I do have to install that program," he says. "And I'd like to get it done before dinner."

I hold on to him a moment longer and give him another lingering kiss before I let go.

He did actually manage to find an outlet for his laptop, and he's got it set up in the window seat, which is excessively picturesque. The lights from the house are softly illuminating the snow outside that has finally stopped coming down, and when Simon sits down with his computer it casts blue on his face.

I stand back for a minute, admiring the view and luxuriating in the intense affection I feel for Simon. He's focussing on his work with a determined expression and one side of his lower lip caught between his teeth, curls falling gently over his forehead, arms and shoulders flexing now and again. He's wearing jeans that actually fit him well (which was my doing), and a lovely grey cardigan with a patterned yoke and leather buttons (which used to be mine -- he looks delicious in grey, whereas I just look dead). The cardigan is a bit too warm for him, so he's wearing it open and showing the logo on his t-shirt, which makes very little sense to me, but he says it's from a programme that he and Penny are into.

He looks up at me, all blue eyes and golden skin. "Why are you stood there in the middle of the room?"

"I love you," I say, and I'm not sure why, but it makes him break into a wide grin.

"You're such a loon, Baz."

I slide over to sit across from him in the window seat with an affected pout. "What, haven't you got one for me, too?"

He leans forward with a fond smile, and I meet him in the middle for a peck. "I love you," he whispers, and I kiss him again.

His computer makes a noise, and he looks down. "Oh, good."

"Sometimes I think you love that thing more than you love me," I mutter, injecting as much sarcasm as I can muster up, which is quite a lot.

"Oh, don't say that," he says, not looking up, but I see him smiling.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to have to choose."

"Prick."

"You're just jealous you're not as slick and shiny is she is," he says, stroking the top of the screen.

I stretch my feet out into his space to annoy him, and he sets his hand on them, an absent-minded caress while he continues working on his software.

I lean back, watching him, and he's completely absorbed. It's still weird to me to see him so happy and distracted with Normal pursuits; I wonder if it'll aways be weird. His magic was always such a big feature, not necessarily of who he was (because he is definitely still the Snow I fell in love with those years ago -- never doubt that), but of what he did. And then everything changed, and it was insanely traumatic, and no one in the history of humanity has ever been through that before. (Magic willing, no one ever will again.)

But he's ... okay. Good, even. He's certainly coping. (Better than I am, some days.) (Lots of days.  Winter is difficult.) Which isn't to say that he doesn't have monumentally shitty days, because he absolutely does. Days where something little will happen (where Penny or I will do something without thinking) and he suddenly isn't okay any more and he isn't really himself again until he's come through the other side and slept it off. But those days are fewer and further between, even though it means his sadness is a bit closer to the surface now. He doesn't pretend to be happy as much any more.

It's fucked up that I feel worse when he's doing better, because him doing better means that he's more forthright with the parts that still aren't okay. And that makes it so hard, _so hard,_ to carry on as though he's not broken, to use magic in my daily life, as though I don't have something phenomenal that he lost. It's what he needs, but it hurts him, sometimes, and I can see it in his eyes. That's what kills me. I just want to take him away from this, to put things back to how they were. I miss his magic. I miss his delight with magic. I miss how he was a summer storm before, and rolled with his own thunder.

Of course, in retrospect, that was part of his problem. The things that happened a year ago were the icing on the shitty cake of Simon's life, a life built on not looking at important things too closely because then he'd have to actually deal with them.

Not that I'm one to lecture on that topic, since I take it to the other extreme. I tie myself in knots; I can't _stop_ thinking, about everything. About Simon, about myself, about Penny, about school, about my family, about the fact that I died when I was five but it wouldn't stick and here I am fifteen years later with only a whisper of a heartbeat and jars of blood in the fridge. About what my mother would think if she knew. About what my mother _did_. Burning bright. A true Pitch.

I haven't freaked out again like I did last year. There have been low times -- there have been a hell of a lot of low times -- but I haven't freaked out. I think it's because Simon's always there, or at least close. He grounds me, keeps me present. Gives me a way back when I go too deep.

I suppose I am going to have to get help and actually deal with all of this someday. But I'm busy, and I don't want to, and I'm managing.

Simon clicks on something, pulls a goofy face, and mutters "Wireless wizard!" in a strange throaty American accent.

I have no idea what he's talking about, and he didn't look up. My heart swells and I twitch my toes to tickle his thigh.

 

 

_-Daphne-_

 

This has certainly been a Boxing Day to remember. Nothing quite like your twenty-year-old step-son, his boyfriend, and the Bard being the reason your oldest daughter needs the birds and the bees explained to her. She already knew where babies come from, of course, but two young men making love in the middle of the afternoon doesn't exactly parallel that for her. Well, it didn't, until today.

I'm already slightly afraid for when Mordelia gets older and tells her friends at Watford about the time she overheard her brother trying to cast a Shakespearean love sonnet in bed; that's not a reputation that this family needs. I can only hope that none of us ever find out whether it worked.

 

 

_-Simon-_

 

Mordelia and Daphne can't bring themselves to look at either of us for the first ten minutes of dinner, but that's fair because I can't really bring myself to acknowledge them either, with all of us knowing what we know about each other now. Baz is his usual silent self, of course, and I at least can busy myself with the food.

Mrs Richardson has outdone herself, and dinner is sublime: beef tenderloin, nice and rare, mashed potatoes and parsnips that are _loaded_ with butter, and roasted Brussels sprouts. They've also got a couple bottles of wine with a label that says Syrah-Grenache, and I don't know very much about wine at all but it's quite good and tastes great with the meal. Baz and his father both finish their first glasses quickly, and by the time they're into the second they've both relaxed a little.

The conversation comes around to the weather before too long (because of course it does), and Mr Grimm asks Baz how much longer he's planning to stay. This seems to startle him a little, and he gives me an uncertain look, which I reply to by shrugging. He finishes swallowing his bite before he answers. (His words are slurred a little by the extra teeth in his mouth; these days he will actually eat in front of his family, but he doesn't like to talk, and the fangs do sometimes startle the little ones.)

"Not sure," he says. "Tomorrow morning, if the roads are clear by then."

"I think they will be," his father replies. "Garret's been out clearing snow today, he says it doesn't look too bad. The car can be dug out."

"When does the train run?" Daphne asks, and Baz has the answer immediately.

"There's one at eight and one at ten-fifteen."

"Both through Reading?" his father says.

"Of course, it's worth the change to get in at Paddington."

"Are you thinking you want to take the earlier train? That will get you home before noon."

"Probably the later one, actually," Baz says, looking at me. "If we were to be in Oxford by eight I'd have to wake the Chosen One before dawn."

I almost laugh out loud before I restrain myself. "I don't have a problem with waking up early."

"Why d'you still call him that?" Mordelia asks, and everyone's head swivels to look at her.

Baz has gone a little pink, but he answers her, though perhaps a bit too quickly. "Force of habit."

"But he hasn't got magic any more, he's not still the Chosen One."

"What I am now doesn't change that I was that before," I say.

She gives me a skeptical look. "It's still not accurate."

"Just because he's not going to save the world again doesn't mean that nobody's still choosing him," Daphne says.

Baz turns decidedly pink at this and hides behind his hands, and I can feel myself blushing. His father picks up his wine glass awkwardly, and I wonder how much he and Daphne have guessed about our relationship. I wonder if they somehow know that "I choose you" is the thing that Baz says to me that means even more than "I love you."

Mordelia nods thoughtfully, and I don't think she's noticed the intense embarrassment, and I'm glad because there has definitely been enough of that for one day.

"Well, Simon," says Mr Grimm, with the tone of someone who is deliberately changing the subject, "how is school going for you? I understand you're doing well in computer science."

Baz looks at me out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't say anything; I'm guessing this is a safe enough topic. "School is good, and yeah, I've been doing some programming. I quite enjoy it."

"You're at ... London South Bank University, right?" The way he says it I know he doesn't think highly of it. It's not Oxford or LSE, sure, but it's still a university.

"Yeah."

"Have you chosen a degree yet?"

Baz has; he recently declared majors in Government and Sociolinguistics, and he's thinking of a minor in philosophy. Me, on the other hand.... "No. I mean, I'm thinking comp sci now, but I'm also kind of...." I pause, and Baz is looking at me with interest. I haven't told him this yet, or Penny. "I'm thinking of trying to switch to a different school first."

Everyone is silent, even the kids -- they're good at picking up on their parents. Daphne finds her voice first. "Where were you thinking?"

"Well, I mean, I'm not sure if I can get in, but I'd like to go to King's. That's where Penny is, and they have a computer science programme I like the look of."

Baz is staring at me like I just turned the world upside-down. "How long have you been thinking this?"

I shrug. "Dr Wolcott mentioned it to me at the end of the term. She thinks with how good my marks are I could get into a better school, that I could have better opportunities."

"Does she think you're good enough to get into _King's College_?" His tone is so disbelieving (borderline condescending) that it kind of hurts, takes me back to Watford. I know I'm not a genius like him and Penny, but I'm not a complete idiot.

"I don't _know_ ," I say, defensively. "But I'm going to apply to some places and see what happens."

Baz still just looks shocked. "Well, good luck with your applications," his father says.

"Thanks." I try not to sound bitter or sarcastic. I should have told Baz about this on his own first so I could have called him a cock when he was rude about it.

Mr Grimm clears his throat and starts a different conversation with Daphne and Mordelia, and Baz gives me another good minute of astonished staring before he turns back to his plate.

The rest of the evening is less stressful, thankfully. After we finish eating Baz and I go back to the library and watch a movie on my laptop, interrupted a few times towards the middle by the girls and Baz's parents coming in to say good night. When it's over we pack up my things and go upstairs, where Baz spends ten minutes getting all of his things and mine ready to leave in the morning. After he finishes he climbs onto the bed beside me and snuggles under my arm, his face mashed into my neck.

"All right?" I say.

"Mmm," he sighs. "Yeah, okay."

I kiss his forehead. "Today wasn't that bad, was it?"

"It had its high points. I don't want to do it again, though."

"Seems like you and your dad worked some stuff out."

"Simon," he groans, "please don't."

"Come on, you can be happy about that."

"Crowley, Simon, let it alone." He rolls back a tiny bit. "It happened because of you, anyway, it wasn't my doing at all. You always make everything so ... extra, when it comes to me and my family. You're not just Snow, you're a bloody blizzard."

I smile. "Blizzards aren't all bad."

"Ugh." He rolls into me again. "Maybe I'll agree with you in the spring."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wireless wizard": sound on, wait for it, it's towards the end: http://www.homestarrunner.com/tgs12.html
> 
> authorial oversharing: woah that last chapter got sort of deep wrt loving someone who's recovering from trauma while not being all there yourself. all I can say is it feels good to have hashed through that with characters, it's less lonely that way.
> 
> thank you all so much for reading, I love every kudos click and treasure every comment. :kisses:
> 
> (updated 4/3/2016 to change the location from Lincoln to Oxford)


End file.
